


The Winter Ripper

by AnonEhouse



Series: Starvation Sleep-Deprivation Stories [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man - All Media Types, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Crack Treated Seriously, Fluff and Crack, Gen, Humor, Stuffed Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-19 01:02:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3590418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonEhouse/pseuds/AnonEhouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Bear solves the Mystery of the Winter Ripper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Winter Ripper

(If you are reading this on any PAY site this is a STOLEN WORK, the author has NOT Given Permission for it to be here. If you're paying to read it, you're being cheated too because you can read it on Archiveofourown for FREE.)

"Again," Sherlock Bear muttered, picking up a piece of fluff, and patting it into his rumpled coat according to the file system he had perfected over the decades. He was a Very Serious Bear and much cleverer than he looked. Yes, he had adorable big brown eyes, but he also had an important case to solve.

He'd been collating data and formulating hypotheses on the Winter Ripper in the wake of his destruction. At first the victims had been dismissed as the work of mindless beasts, - dogs were particularly fond of stuffie torture- or cruel children taunting their siblings by ripping off the limbs of their toys, or simple misadventure.

But as the killings continued, the pattern became more detailed- a fine lace net formed of facts. 

Fact: the killer was singular. No matter how many killings took place at one time, they were never at more than one location. A loading dock might have a dozen crates of plushies assaulted, fluff strewn everywhere, but the killings stopped within the radius of a single plushie's sphere of movement.

Fact: the killer possessed tremendous strength- the crates had been ripped apart by claws far stronger than Sherlock's own.

Fact: the killer took _only_ a single left arm of Ursinoid stuffies, no matter how many mutilated bodies were at the scene.

Fact: the killer later discarded the stolen limb.

Fact: the killer operated almost exclusively in Winter.

That was more than enough to give him a mental image of the Winter Ripper, and his motivations, but it wasn't enough to let him predict the next location and put an end to the carnage. So far, the predations had been limited to not-yet-ensouled factory-made bears, but who knew when he might turn his attention to well-beloved toys with fully developed personalities capable of suffering? 

He sat and absently ate blueberries while he considered what to do, before giving up with a sigh and returning to his home in Stark mansion. He'd been set aside to await the next generation of Stark, which hopefully wouldn't be too long. He paused to peer into the baby's crib. Too little to play with someone whose eyes might come off, but the child was growing. He reached in to pat the baby's curly fluff of black hair, feeling fond of little Tony already. It was what a teddy bear was meant for, after all.

He climbed the weary way up to the attic, and irritably tugged at his box, trying to get the lid free. It came loose suddenly and he fell backwards, falling to the back of the shelf, and down a lot further than he should have. He landed on top of another box, breaking the lid. 

"Who's there?" came a voice from inside the box. 

Sherlock jumped aside and tugged the pieces of the lid loose. "Who are you?" Sherlock asked, looking down in surprise at the beautifully jointed wooden doll painted in patriotic colors. "I thought I knew all the Stark family heirloom toys."

The doll blinked up at him. "I'm Steve Rogers. Erskine made me. I was supposed to wait here for Howard's birthday. Me and my friend Bucky. Do you know when the party is to begin?" He sat up in a rustle of yellowed newspaper scraps and looked around. "Or where Bucky is?"

Sherlock picked up a piece of newspaper and peered at it. "Nineteen Forty Three. You must have been meant for Howard, Senior. That was... well, it was a long time ago. We're waiting for his grandson Tony now."

Steve got up and looked around wildly. "How? How could I have been lost for so long?"

"Your box fell through a hole in the shelf." Sherlock looked at the far end of the shelf where there was an abandoned rats' nest lined with fluffy white fur. He peered into the nest, but there was no bear, just enough fluff and fur to make up a good part of one. Sherlock had the last few pieces of the puzzle now.

"I've got to find Buck." Steve stood up and started climbing up through the hole in the shelf.

Sherlock wasn't as athletic, but he followed Steve up until they reached Sherlock's box, which was a very comfortable, satin-lined design, far larger than he needed. Steve had stopped there and was looking wildly across the attic, at all the 'modern' things, at all the toys that ran on batteries, and solar cells, at all the unnatural colors of synthetic plush, and of course, at Iron Man's Techno Factory with all the extra add-ons. Sherlock came up beside Steve and patted him on the arm.

"It will be all right. I just need you to help me with a few details, and we'll find your friend Bucky. He's a white bear, isn't he?"

Steve nodded, numbly. "The best mohair. And... and he's fully jointed with real metal claws. He looks fierce, but he's not. He's my best friend. We grew up together, I know everything about him."

"Can you draw him? Just his arm. His left arm, to be precise? To exact scale. With the seams, too, if you can?"

"Yes? Why?" But Steve couldn't get any answer out of Sherlock, who was being smug and a bit zany, so he sat down with a pencil and drawing paper, working carefully to get everything exactly right.

All the rest of the toys gladly pitched in. They were bored waiting for Tony and gleefully ran off copies of Steve's sketch, and stole a mohair shrug, which was long out of style anyway. Iron Man took all the materials and made a new arm, with a brand new joint, but of the old style with washers and cotter pins. He insisted on making them of gold-titanium because he liked shiny things.

Then the toys took all the copies and scattered throughout the city, pasting them up with a little map showing the way to Stark Mansion.

 

A week later, Bucky Bear showed up, wild-eyed and rough-coated, with a badly fitted gray arm stuck to his side. It still had a Walmart tag on it.

"BUCKY!" Steve shouted, and there was almost an epic battle, but Sherlock had the Cupid doll shoot Bucky full of Honey and Thyme tranquilizer arrows. 

Bucky slept through the whole arm-replacement with no more than a few low growls. 

 

Steve looked down at Bucky and smiled. Sherlock had insisted they share his box, because he was sure to be the first one taken down when Tony reached Sensible Age. Bucky opened his eyes, and lifted both paws. His left was a little brighter white than the other, to be sure, but it was a close match. He smiled at Steve. "Hey, punk."

And then Steve cried a little and told Bucky how much he'd missed him.

Sherlock listened non-judgmentally. That's what a teddy bear is for, after all. That and solving great mysteries.


End file.
